


You Think You’re Safe

by tjstar



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Blood and Injury, Canon-Typical Violence, Curses, Feelings Realization, Friendship/Love, Hurt Jaskier | Dandelion, Hurt/Comfort, Jaskier | Dandelion Whump, Love Potion/Spell, M/M, Monster of the Week, Werewolves, set after 1x06
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-12
Updated: 2020-01-12
Packaged: 2021-02-27 12:40:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,422
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22227280
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tjstar/pseuds/tjstar
Summary: “I’d pay to never hear your yelling again.”“Rude,” Jaskier deadpans. “This is what I like about you. Your brutality, it’s like a stale pie, but the filling is still relatively soft? Don’t be ashamed of your soft filling, Geralt.”Oh, he remembers that conversation that nearly cost Jaskier his life. And now Geralt is definitely going to punch him for his metaphors, more precisely for how terrible they are. Maybe Geralt is a poet himself. Deep inside.---A sorcerer curses Jaskier’s voice, Yennefer tries to help, and Geralt doesn’t want to be a muse.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 49
Kudos: 1266





	You Think You’re Safe

“This is what you get when you sleep with the sorcerer’s stepdaughter.”

“That’s… That’s not even true! It was just one serenade, Geralt, one serenade, as innocent as my entire existence!” Jaskier presses both of his palms over his heart. “Huh, _you_ don’t believe me? Come on, Geralt, you know me. I swear, our love was purely platonic… Because her stepfather, that very angry gentleman, caught us.”

Right, Geralt knows him, and _this_ is the problem. Geralt doesn’t even bother to turn his head to Jaskier, clarifying,

“And then he cursed your voice.”

“And then he cursed my voice,” Jaskier agrees. “He also _indeed_ said something about the murder of a minstrel, but I was a bit in a rush already, and I’m not the only one minstrel over there, so maybe he wasn’t talking about me?”

 _You wish,_ Geralt scoffs mentally. _How one can be so hopelessly dumb?_

“So you don’t remember what he said?” 

“No, I don’t, but I feel like I could share a story or two with an old _friend?”_

“Not this again.”

After their last fight, Geralt didn’t think he’d ever hear this voice again, nagging straight into his ear, or ever see Jaskier again, staggering along with Roach and talking, talking, talking… This is not what he expected to get on his way to the werewolf’s lair; the creature has been keeping the whole Velen in fright. So he can just keep making Jaskier walk, and walk, and walk until he passes out from the sunstroke or gets lost in the nearest tavern. For his own safety, by the way. 

“...what do you think?” Jaskier’s question interrupts Geralt’s brooding. “Hey? What a good morning, by the way.”

Roach huffs. 

“It _was_ a good morning until some bothersome bard got on my tail again. What do you want from me?” Geralt makes the horse stop so suddenly Jaskier almost gets stepped on with her hooves. 

“What if I can actually kill with my voice?” 

“You’ve been talking for hours. Should’ve talked me to death already,” Geralt gets off Roach, letting her rest while he’s dealing with this pain in the ass again. “I have some job to do.”

“Me too!” Jaskier exclaims. “A performance in the inn somewhere… nearby, don’t dwell on geography when it’s not necessary. So,” he claps his hands. “You don’t want to risk those people’s lives, right?”

Geralt gets the hint.

“So you haven’t sung for anyone since?..”

“Yeah, couldn’t bring myself to do that for my beautiful muse… Another one,” Jaskier frowns. “Or another. Or anyone. And you probably have that… High magic tolerance?”

Geralt gets back onto Roach. 

“I’d pay to never hear your yelling again.”

“Rude,” Jaskier deadpans. “This is what I like about you. Your brutality, it’s like a stale pie, but the filling is still relatively soft? Don’t be ashamed of your soft filling, Geralt.” 

Oh, he remembers that conversation that nearly cost Jaskier his life. And now Geralt is definitely going to punch him for his metaphors, more precisely for how terrible they are. Maybe Geralt is a poet himself. Deep inside. 

“Jaskier,” he says through his gritted teeth. “Sing whatever you want already and fuck off.”

Jaskier doesn’t seem to believe his words.

“You’re letting me?”

Geralt gives him a silent nod, swaying in the rhythm with Roach’s steps. Out of the corner of his eye he sees Jackier pluck the strings of his lute — nothing happens. Nothing happens when he inhales deeply, but then,

Then he begins to sing. 

Geralt has even heard this ballad before, in a shabby inn when they were still traveling together; Jaskier’s voice is still the same, but the way Geralt perceives it has changed. There’s something virulent and dark sliding in between the notes like snakes, licking the lyrics with their forked tongues.

“By the woods can you see, wolf in all his might”, Jaskier closes his eyes, pulling his lute closer to his chest, completely unaware of what he’s doing. 

There’s the ringing in Geralt’s ears, funeral bells along with the pounding of blood, mutated heart’s beating too fast for a witcher; Roach feels it, she hears it too, pressing her ears to her skull and hightailing forward so suddenly Geralt can’t keep the balance and falls, gripping against the saddle with one hand while his armored body gets dragged across the stones.

“Jaskier!” he hollers. “Stop!”

The song continues. 

The curse can do that. 

“Roach!” 

The horse is startled, speeding up, and Geralt loosens his grip, letting her go — she better hide in a safe place. He can find her later, after shutting Jaskier _the fuck up._ He can’t see straight, only spotting the silhouette beside the tree, repeating the same strumming pattern over and over again.

“Why is this mighty beast so badly rampaged?” like a battle hymn. 

The sound comes and goes in waves along with Geralt’s consciousness as he jumps up on his feet. There’s a thought in his head, _good that it’s me, not Jaskier’s usual audience._ Not the ones he’s bound to protect. Now, protect them from Jaskier and his cursed voice; he’s way too enthralled by his deadly performance, not even stirring when Geralt calls him by his name couple more times. He can’t turn to a monster, not like this, at least. With his vision fading, Geralt smacks the back of Jaskier’s head with a heavy handle of his sword. He doubts that it’s gonna work, so he breathes out a prolonged _hm-m_ when Jaskier drops his lute and falls down like a sack. Geralt bends down to slap him on his cheeks, but Jaskier’s head lolls to his shoulder as if his neck is just a boneless shred of skin. 

Roach nuzzles Geralt’s side, and he pets her head; it’s good that the horse returned right in time when he needs to transport an unconscious bard to the camp they’re gonna have to make. 

“Damn your adventures, Jaskier,” Geralt grumbles, ears still clogged. 

Being Jaskier’s guardian would definitely ruin Geralt’s reputation; but at least now he’s not gonna let Jaskier write a song about his soft filling.

***

Jaskier comes to when the twilight casts shadows on the ground. He sits up with a moan, leaning his back against the tree and reaching for his lute while his eyes are still half-lidded. 

“Touch it and I’ll break your arm,” Geralt warns. He’s standing right in front of Jaskier, keeping an eye on him. “What’s the last thing you remember?”

“Huh, my head weighs a ton, but I remember...” Jaskier falters. “You wanted me to sing you a song?” he scratches a fresh bruise on his temple. “Oh. You didn’t like it, I’m assuming. Well, then it was one of my old ones, how dumb of me!..”

Geralt crosses his arms over his chest, not going to tell Jaskier what _exactly_ caused his terrible headache. 

“You scared Roach.”

“Me?” 

“You,” Geralt says dryly. “The curse is real. Get up, we’re leaving before the sunset.” 

Jaskier blinks as if he sees him for the first time. 

“S-sure. I just… Need a minute. Feeling a bit dizzy.”

Geralt doesn’t wait for Jaskier to get up on his own, harshly jerking him upright; he lets out a surprised squeal when Geralt grabs his lute out of habit. Jaskier raises his arms in defeat,

“Careful! This is not a sword! No need for waving it around to intimidate… The birds and bees,” he gibbers out. 

Geralt can only imagine what he’d do to Jaskier for touching his sword and sighs. His knees are about to buckle without support, and Geralt doesn’t want to lose their precious time if Jaskier faints in the middle of nowhere. 

“Get on Roach,” he wants it to sound like an order, but it’s mostly a friendly advice.

Jaskier perks up.

“Where are we going?”

“To Yennefer.”

“O-oh, that’s how you _care_ about me, Geralt?”

“I don’t care about _you._ Just don’t want any of your future muses to die like flies,” Geralt cuts Jaskier off, getting on the horse behind him. “Poor ladies don’t deserve this. And keep silent for fuck’s sake.”

Sitting on Roach together is not comfortable, because Jaskier’s fidgeting way too much so Geralt can only see a glimpse of the road, and the thoughts flooding his head are so very far from optimistic. He’d expect to get a hysterical tempest from Jaskier, but he seems to believe that Yennefer’s gonna fix him anyway so he keeps calm. A second of silence is all that Geralt gets though, because Jaskier turns to him as much as he can, trying to look into his eyes.

“Hey, Geralt?”

“What?”

“You _definitely_ care about me.”

*** 

No singing actually means more talking. Geralt almost regrets that that sorcerer hasn’t cursed Jaskier with a complete muteness, or maybe, this is a part of a punishment as well. It is a long way, unfortunately, and Jaskier’s tales get more and more twists.

They stop near the river.

Geralt wonders if Jaskier has recovered well enough to keep walking on his own, because he’s sure that even Roach doesn’t want to listen to him anymore. Jaskier’s lute is packed in a bag safely, no strumming sounds, no nothing. 

“I can still write prose,” he says, eyes gleaming with joy. 

“Great. Anything that would make you shut up.” 

Their journey continues. 

Jaskier writes a story about dragons and their eggs, about the creatures that don’t exist, about the witcher and his _way too brave bard._ He reads it out loud, and when he turns the page, Gerald utters,

“Never fail to disappoint me, Jaskier.”

Mostly, he grouches because now he’s forced to correct his route to get rid of the curse and hopefully never see Jaskier again. Well, that’s gonna be equal to a happy ending.

Jaskier doesn’t get offended at that, blessing him with a witty answer,

“Oh, that’s because you can’t read it yourself. Want me to teach you? We can learn the alphabet together, if you want, we’d start with A, and…”

 _Get off my horse,_ Geralt should say.

“I can read,” Geralt says instead. 

Jaskier laughs at him. 

***

Yennefer smirks as she sees them together _again._

“None of you is dying from what I can see,” she says. “Can’t believe you just wanted to greet me like that.” 

“We actually have a problem,” Geralt says. “He has,” he corrects himself, shoving Jaskier in the ribs. “Tell her.” 

Jaskier is still a little shocked after his last meeting with Yennefer, but of course, he can’t keep his mouth shut, explaining the situation with an embarrassing amount of details. When he offers to sing his newest song to demonstrate her _the damage,_ Yennefer raises her hand.

“Enough.”

Jaskier gives her a pleading look. 

“Can you help me?”

She comes closer to him, and he instinctively takes a step backwards, almost falling, as she touches his neck, his jaw, moving her hands as if the ritual has started already. 

“That’s some strong magic,” Yennefer cocks her head. “Gonna be difficult to neutralize it.” 

Jaskier slides down the wall, missing the chair.

“Oh.” 

“But it’s still possible,” Yennefer says. “You’re gonna have to wait until I make a potion. Hope you didn’t forget your cat on the stove again.” 

“How long?” Geralt asks. He actually hopes that he can just leave Jaskier here and get back to his job. Alone. What’s so sad about that?

Yennefer’s eyes gleam with violet fire.

“Have some patience,” she says as she leaves the room. “Don’t go anywhere.” 

Geralt mumbles, 

“It’s not that I was going to.” 

He will never feel safe in her fancy mansion. All the gold and velvet steal the air.

Jaskier glances at his lute lying by the threshold. 

“Wanna be the first to listen to my ballad once I’m cured?”

“It’s all that I can dream about.”

“Really?”

“Of course not.” 

Jaskier falls silent after that. They can hear Yennefer’s muffled voice, but the words are too indistinct. So when she enters the room again, it looks like an act of magic; she’s holding _two_ silver goblets in her hands. Geralt tenses up.

“What is this?”

“I’d prefer to keep a secret,” Yennefer replies. “Drink.” 

She hands them the goblets, Jaskier is the first to take a small sip. He scrunches up his nose immediately,

“Tastes like rat poison.”

Yennefer remains noncommittal. 

“It’s gonna break the curse.”

“Yeah, and erode my stomach,” Jaskier pipes up before gulping the mouthful of a potion. 

It’s as red on his lips as blood. Geralt doesn’t enjoy it at all.

“Why do _I_ have to drink it?” 

“The curse affected you,” Yennefer says. 

“I scared Roach,” Jaskier sets an empty goblet onto the table. “Is she gonna be fine?”

“The magic works differently on animals.”

Geralt nods. The fluid tastes indeed like rat poison or worse, he has to agree with Jaskier for once. It’s viscous on his tongue, burning his throat and leaving a foul taste in his mouth. 

“Thank you, Yenn.”

She nods, and she says,

“Be careful with the aftermath.” 

“The aftermath?!”

“Calm down,” Yennefer rolls her eyes. “It’s just…” she sighs. “There might be a bit of… Feelings between you two since you both drank it.” 

“A bit of… What?” Geralt coughs up.

Jaskier nearly falls off the chair. Again.

“Was it some kind of love potion?”

Yennefer shakes her head. 

“Not really. But some of the ingredients mixed up together might lead to such side effect.” 

“Love is not a side effect,” Jaskier grunts.

“It is, when it comes to potions,” Geralt says. “I’m not gonna fall in love with you.” 

Jaskier shrugs. 

***

They don’t stay for a night at Yennefer’s. Geralt keeps asking himself why the hell Jaskier still keeps following him, singing his ballads ardently with his newfound ability of _not_ killing with his voice. He’s on the second verse of his way too long song, and Geralt doesn’t believe it at first, but there’s this weird tingling in his chest when Jaskier hits the high notes. It’s all about his timbre, deep and calming that somehow matches Geralt’s mood; but he remembers Yennefer’s words. Maybe it’s the aftermath makes him feel this way. Makes him feel dumb. Makes him feel. 

“Jaskier.” 

“Want me to shut up?”

“It’s impossible to travel incognito when you’re hovering around.” 

“I made you famous,” Jaskier plays a random chord. “I don't regret it.” 

“I do.”

He _does_ regret it, right? As much as he regrets saying those words about that pile of shit and a shovel, and —

These are not Geralt’s usual thoughts. 

Now when Jaskier _is hovering around,_ at least. 

“We need to stop,” Jaskier yawns. “Of course, you are not tired, but think about Roach, you, heartless…”

Geralt doesn’t let him finish.

“Fine.”

One word is enough for Jaskier to fountain with happiness.

“I knew it would work!” he sits down onto the nearest boulder, relieved. “God bless Yenn.”

Geralt tries his best to ignore him, leading Roach to the water; the horse drinks greedily while Geralt listens to the quiet strumming of the lute. 

“We’re stuck in this shit together, Roach,” Geralt sighs. “And he’s stuck with us, and… Fuck your potions, Yenn.”

Roach gives him a comforting pat on the shoulder with her nose. 

“Yeah, you understand me.” 

He washes his face with icy cold water, but his head still feels heavy, and he’s about to start a conversation —

But when he comes back, Jaskier is sleeping, using his bag instead of a pillow. Roach nuzzles Geralt’s shoulder again.

“No, we don’t want to wake him up,” Geralt shakes his head. “Silence, finally.” 

With this, he tries to get some rest. But the forest is never silent at night with creatures lurking in the bushes and with insects crawling up and down his armor. Crawling into his heart like Yennefer’s spells, that make him think of —

Jaskier. 

What’s the color of his eyes, by the way? Blue, like drowners’ skin, probably. Far from romantic. 

“Do I care about him?” 

Roach nods. 

*** 

Geralt wakes up to Jaskier’s voice. 

“Rise and shine, oh witcher of mine!”

Oh, they haven’t gotten killed in their sleep, it seems. Geralt can’t brush off the fatigue, blinking at the sunlight streaming through the trees standing in tight rows. How could he even sleep for this long? He’s sure Roach would mock him; but there’s Jaskier to voice Roach’s possible thoughts.

“Had any dreams?”

“No,” Geralt stretches. “No dreams.”

“I had _one,”_ Jaskier winks at him. “Might write a song about it later.”

Something in his smile tells Geralt that he’s not gonna like this masterpiece at all. And Jaskier’s eyes are indeed as blue as drowners’ skin. What a fascinating sight.

And they get back on the road. 

And Jaskier writes a new ballad as promised — there’s the second when Geralt says that _your fucking lute would look better shattered,_ because this is a love song about the witcher with incredible golden eyes and a certain kind of _love potion_ his body produces, and about a handsome and incredibly gifted minstrel who’s always there to cover up his back. 

“I’m gonna call it Seeds of Love,” Jaskier says. 

And Geralt says,

“I’m gonna tie you down and leave you there.”

The melody won’t go out of his mind now. 

“Eh, you’re not gonna bury my talent,” Jaskier waves his hand nonchalantly. “We just have to wait it out,” he keeps playing as he talks, speech spiraling down to the whirlwind of purple prose. 

“It doesn’t even rhyme,” Geralt scowls. If Jaskier couldn’t kill him with his voice, he can still kill him with the quality of his songs. No wonders people in the inns are always ready to throw hands with him.

They have to wait it out, but for how long? This whole thing feels like waking up for the first time after a week of illness, and there’s the realization that he can’t save Jaskier if he’s gonna start hunting for the monster tonight. He can’t save everyone, he can’t risk, and the best thing he can do is lure Jaskier into a tavern, maybe get him drunk and leave. Meanwhile, Jaskier comes with new rhymes for _‘chest’_ and _‘hips’_ and _‘that lonely witcher may or may not be old, but he’s got such a beautiful soul.’_

Geralt would’ve beaten the shit out of him just a few days ago, but today… It’s not even his fault, technically. And loving Jaskier could be a funny thing, if his mutated heart could only comprehend that feeling. Jaskier was not right when he said that Geralt smelled like a _heartbreak,_ because you can’t get your heart broken if you don’t have one. Or when he said that somebody would want him.

“Stop singing about us.”

“I’m not saying any names,” Jaskier pouts. “Love is love. Are we gonna do something to… relieve the tension between us?”

“One more word, and I swear…”

Jaskier stops abruptly.

“You swear _what?”_

Geralt’s nerves may be made of steel, but this is just too much; he stops Roach, gets down to the ground and grabs Jaskier by the front of his shirt. Jaskier lets out a soft gasp when his back gets pressed to the tree. 

“Is this a part where we kiss?” he whispers.

“This is a part where I strangle you to death, Jaskier.”

“What if I’m gonna like it?”

Geralt grabs him by the back of his neck and pulls him closer, baring his teeth just to wipe that arrogant look off his face. And then there’s a tinge of curiosity curling in his gut, what it feels like when you are one of Jaskier’s muses. What it feels like when you’re just a trope in the song for the drunk people in the inn to howl along. And Geralt goes for it, because fuck this, it’s just a side effect, another curse no one’s gonna find out about. He might swallow down his clumsiness, and this is when their friendship reaches a _physical_ level. Jaskier’s lips are soft with a small sore from when he kept biting them, Geralt feels a vibration racking through their bodies as if he can suck Jaskier’s soul out of him. _One_ kiss can’t destroy anything. Geralt’s breathing gets heavy, he feels an irregular thumping of Jaskler’s heart under his palm; Jaskier’s a like a rabbit that’s about to get eaten by a hungry wolf. His pulse is too fast even for a human; it might hurt. 

Geralt pulls away, not fully aware of what has just happened. He lowers his head and presses his fists to his knees, he’s never been _bewitched_ before. All he gets though, is Jaskler’s verdict. 

“You have to… Practice more,” Jaskier pants, wiping his mouth on his sleeve. “I’ll teach you.”

“You taste like frustration,” Geralt grumbles. 

“You taste like masculinity and garlic that would get along with some ale just greatly.”

“That’s not gonna happen,” Geralt turns to Roach. _“You_ haven’t seen anything.”

“Your horse is smarter than you,” Jaskier points out. “She’s speechless.” 

“She’s a horse.”

“Not an excuse.” 

Geralt ignores him.

“Come on, Geralt, you love me now,” Jaskier waves his hand in front of Geralt’s face. 

“This is the problem, I don’t want to love you,” Geralt barks up. “And I hate love potions, So we’re heading back to Yennefer to break the spells once we kill the werewolf. Don’t even try to get lost until we’re sure that you hate me with every fiber of your very being.”

Jaskier, apparently, gets his tirade like _you’re staying with me for our happily ever after._

Geralt doesn’t mind. 

*** 

“Tell me about werewolves,” Jaskier says.

“They smell your fear,” Geralt says. “They kill.”

This is all Jaskier has to know about these monsters, and Geralt is, in fact, worried. He doesn’t want to admit it, he doesn’t want to talk about it. About anything in general. But Jaskier turns to a blabbermouth when he’s nervous, when he’s happy, because Geralt lets him ride Roach again as they keep wandering the forest. They just have to survive one more night and then send Jaskier to the nearest village so that Geralt can get his job done while he’s sure Jaskier is surrounded with his best muses. Nah, that’s not so good, then he’d have to protect him from those muses’ fathers, husbands, brothers and other relatives.

The claw marks look like scars on the trees. It’s too late.

They hear the howling, echoing throughout the forest.

“What’s our plan now?” Jaskier whispers, holding onto Roach’s neck way too tightly. 

And Geralt says,

“Don’t move.” 

They’re gonna die before they retreat. 

The howling grows louder, bone-chilling and blood-curdling, ricocheting off the moon and shattering against the cold ground. 

“Don’t move,” Geralt repeats. 

Jaskier obeys. He’s not even breathing, too overwhelmed to make a sound with his lute hanging lifelessly on a leather belt behind his back. 

Geralt slides off the horse, giving her a slight nod. 

“It’s gonna be okay, Roach.”

Then he turns to Jaskier.

“I’m sorry.”

If he’s not messing this up, both Jaskier and Roach are gonna be saved, he just needs to give her a sign to run while he steals the werewolf’s attention. His hopes get smashed as the creature heaves itself up onto his back, dragging its claws against his armor, shoving him onto the ground and growling, scrunching up its muzzle and drooling all over Geralt’s face. The fight smells like a beast, there’s the haze swimming in front of Geralt’s eyes, he’s pressed to the ground with the creature’s massive paws. He can’t reach for his sword or react in any other way, listening to the snarling — his tactic is working, and he should already hear the hooves clunking against the ground, freeing both Jaskier and Roach. He just needs to win more time for them.

This is _his_ battle. 

“Hey!” he hears, metal smell fills the air, and the werewolf grunts hungrily. A whistle makes Geralt wince as the werewolf turns its head to the sound.

“Jaskier, you idiot—”

The words get stuck in Geralt’s throat. Because there’s Jaskier standing a few feet away from them, holding a small bloodied dagger in his hand and showing a fresh cut on his left forearm. His sleeve is rolled up, the sight of blood is welcoming, dripping ruby-red blotches onto the grass.

The werewolf moves like a lightning, fleeting to Jaskier and kicking him in the chest with its paws, and then —

Geralt’s silver sword slashes the werewolf’s spine, but a chunk of flesh from Jaskier’s shoulder still disappears in its mouth. The monster dies before it even hits the ground. The moon is as red as its teeth, as red as blood pooling beside Jaskier’s crumpled figure in the bushes. He used himself as a _bait_ to distract the monster after all those times Geralt had called him a coward.

“Jaskier,” Geralt squats down to check the pulse on his neck. It’s weak, but still palpable. “Jaskier?” he repeats. “Don’t fucking—”

Jaskier coughs, pressing his good hand to his certainly broken ribs to keep some air in his lungs. 

“We’re not,” he wheezes. “N-not gonna write an epic ballad about it, but…”

Geralt’s forced to put his ear to Jaskier’s quivering lips to hear what he’s saying. 

Jaskier gives him a labored smile, a bloody foam begins to dry in the corner of his mouth. 

“Keep the lute,” he manages before closing his eyes.

*** 

Geralt uses his sword to dig a shallow grave, lugging the corpse into it. The sun is rising, sweat trickles down his back as he straightens up and goes to Roach; she stops chewing the grass as he pats her between the ears. The lute is now tied to the side of a saddle, safe and sound. 

His job is a nightmare.

It could’ve been worse. There could be two graves, at least. 

He then gets down on his knees to touch Jaskier’s forehead; his skin’s hot, burning with fever, but he couldn’t keep the water down during the night. Geralt stopped the bleeding, but moving Jaskier could still reopen the wound in his shoulder. Hours of waiting felt like eternity. Geralt couldn’t get any sleep on his post so he had to entertain himself with burying the werewolf’s body not to tempt wild animals lurking around. He didn’t even know that poor man who got that full moon curse. 

Jaskier lets out a dry cough. Geralt frowns.

“How are you feeling?” 

“Never better.”

Jaskier’s shirt is soaked with blood oozing through the bandages, but he can still get up from the ground with Geralt’s help. 

“We’re heading to Velen,” Geralt says. “You need to get a decent help.” 

It would take a couple of weeks for his wound to heal, and Geralt doesn’t have this time on his hands. They both get on Roach, Geralt behind Jaskier to hold him upright. He can feel warmth seeping through Jaskier’s clothing. Not a good sign.

“Talk to me,” Geralt says.

Jaskier’s laughter turns to a pained groan as Geralt keeps him from falling.

“You still _love_ me?”

“I don’t care what you’re talking about,” Geralt squeezes the reins. “Just. Keep. Talking.”

And so Jaskier does. Geralt listens to his mumbling, not getting a half of it as his speech gets more and more slurred, and the crust caked all over his shoulder gets covered with a layer of fresh blood. Jaskier trails off in the middle of a sentence. Geralt shakes him slightly.

“Stay awake.” 

“I’m awake,” Jaskier throws his head back so it almost hits Geralt in the face. “Just tired.”

Geralt shakes him again.

“Read something, your stupid poetry, prose, whatever. Whatever comes to your mind.”

Jaskier clears his throat, then rasping out,

“My, oh my, what a sight! Why no melancholy?” 

Geralt listens to him as his voice gets weaker and he stumbles over the words, no curse on his voice, no curse at all. Just a black wing of death swooshing above his head. Roach hurries down the road, spiraling into a gallop as more blood from the wound sticks to Geralt’s palm, and Jaskler’s breathing gets more erratic. He’s slipping into unconsciousness by the time they arrive to Velen, and Geralt has to carry him down the narrow street, too crowded for his liking. 

“The witcher,” a kid screams, pointing his finger at him. “The Butcher of Blaviken!”

There’s a hustle, people running for their lives, away from him. This is a _side effect_ of Jaskier making him famous. And Geralt says the words he’d never think he’d say again,

“I need help.”

He looks down at Jaskier’s pale face, and people keep passing by, frightened. All he can do is watch the trail of blood streaming down Jaskier’s fingertips. Until there’s somebody wearing a long black robe with a hood covering their face appears next to him.

“Follow me,” they whisper. “I can help him.”

Geralt doesn’t have any other choice, wading through the crowd, blood-stained and almost defeated; the stranger leads him to a small house where the roads cross and takes the hood off. Geralt almost drops Jackier as he recognizes the face. 

“Yenn?”

“I knew you would need my help soon, so I decided to catch you up there. What a lovely place,” she says with a small smile playing on her lips. “You better lay him down before you break the rest of his bones.” 

Geralt lays Jaskier down onto the small crooked bed in the corner; it creaks in unison with Jaskier’s exhale. The bedsheets under his shoulders soak immediately. 

“Stitch this idiot up, please,” Geralt rubs his forehead tiredly. “He tried to save my life. In his own… way.”

This house is nothing like Yennefer’s lavish mansion, yet there’s nothing cozy about it, with the dust and cracked tableware on the shelves. But this is just a disguise for the curious ones. Every Yennefer’s move is full of magic, or it is a magic itself; she uses a thin silver knife to cut Jaskier’s shirt off along with the set of soiled bandages. 

“A werewolf’s bite,” she declares as she cleans up the wound. “He’s not gonna get cursed with it, but there’s an infection. And he lost a lot of blood.”

With his eyes closed and with the meager light leaking from the window, Jaskier looks even younger than he actually is. Geralt doesn’t want to realize that he could’ve just buried him _like that._ Yennefer takes a few tiny bottles, mixing their contents up in a clay bowl then permeating a cloth with it and pressing it to Jaskier’s injured shoulder. Geralt can see red and black lines appearing under his skin, then running to the wound and back into the cloth; the bite mark is still bleeding, but Yennefer does a few manipulations with potions and fresh bandages. She reads the spell in Elder then turning back to Geralt as the blood begins to congeal. 

“He’s gonna get some rest.”

“And the side effect?” Geralt asks before he can stop himself.

Yennefer freezes with a bowl in her hands.

“What side effect?”

“Of us, being in love,” he nods towards Jaskier. “Can you take it back?”

He never cared that much. 

“Oh, _that,”_ Yennefer cackles. “That was just a trick that worked just right, as I see. I just wanted you to notice things that were too obvious between you two. Not every witcher has his own bard, right? Not every bard has his own witcher.”

He should’ve known, but he’s too tired to even get angry with Yennefer at this point — he could’ve lost the only friend he’s ever had, and she brought him back from the dead twice. Although the bound between him and Jaskier feels like a burden sometimes, the sight of Jaskier’s blood on the werewolf’s fangs scared the daylights out of him. 

“I think I can handle it,” Geralt says. “If he stops yelling the songs about me fucking him in every inn.” 

Yennefer raises her eyebrow.

“Don’t kill him for that, he’s just too easy to impress.” 

“Yeah. He’s gonna be surprised when he wakes up.”

Maybe Geralt indeed needs _his own_ bard to annoy him as much as he needs coin.

Jaskier snorts on his sleep, sweat gathers on his temples as his fever breaks. Yennefer sits down onto the bed, patting Jaskier’s knee.

“Are you gonna tell him about our little scam?”

“Hm,” Geralt scratches his chin. “I’m gonna think about it.”

**Author's Note:**

> happy 2020 hoomans!
> 
> jaskier invented fanfiction you are welcome


End file.
